Editor’s note: New details have emerged since this story was originally published. For the latest information and complete coverage on the fire that killed 19 firefighters and destroyed more than 100 homes, visit yarnell.azcentral.com.

Amid the snap of a snare drum, the applause for the eulogies and the thunder of Marine Corps jets, a memorial for 19 Arizona firefighters was marked most by moments of silence pierced by the tolling of a single silver bell. As the bell sounded, 19 names were read aloud, the members of the Granite Mountain Hotshot crew killed June 30 as they fought the Yarnell Hill Fire. Nineteen times, the bell sounded, and the names echoed as honor guards handed grieving families flags and bronzed firefighting tools. Nineteen more times it sounded — a ring and a response as the clapper struck both sides — as the guards bestowed medals of honor.

Eric Shane Marsh ... Jesse James Steed ...

The 19 names were familiar. By Tuesday’s ceremony, everyone in the crowd had heard them. From the first word of the tragedy on the night of June 30 to the terrible reality of the days that followed, the deaths of the 19 had been sinking in.

But the rhythmic recital inside the hushed arena seemed to bring with it a finality. It silenced the 6,100 people attending the service inside the Prescott Valley arena and the thousands more watching on giant television screens outside and at a nearby college.

“There is always a threat of something going wrong,” said Prescott Fire Chief Dan Fraijo, under whose command the hotshots worked. “There is always the threat of being injured and, God forbid, being killed in the line of duty. It is a fact we all accept. The hotshots knew this and accepted this risk, and they never complained.”

... Clayton Whitted ... Robert E. Caldwell ...

The themes resonated throughout the two-hour memorial for the 19, risk and duty, fate and service. They arose in tributes from fellow firefighters, from elected officials, from Vice President Joe Biden, who declared, “Firefighting is not what they did. It was who they were.”

Thousands of firefighters from departments and agencies across North America filled Tim’s Toyota Center arena for the memorial, joining relatives of the 19 hotshots, who perished in the deadliest wildland firefighting disaster in Arizona history.

Afterward, the families claimed their loved ones and prepared for individual funerals, which will begin today and continue into next week, in Arizona and in firefighters’ home states, including California, Oregon, Montana and Illinois.

“How wonderful it is to know that Arizona was home to 19 men like those we honor today,” Brewer said in her remarks. “While not all of these men were from Arizona, we claim each one as our own.”

More than anything, the memorial Tuesday was about firefighters, the 19 who died and the thousands who journeyed to Arizona to pay tribute. Inside the arena and outside were representatives from wildland crews and departments from almost every state and Canada.

Firefighters from other cities took up stations in Prescott to allow every member of the Prescott Fire Department to attend the service, a show of brotherhood that speakers mentioned often.

“Most people can’t comprehend the culture and bond of our profession,” said Harold Schaitberger, general president of the International Association of Fire Fighters. “The Granite Mountain Hotshot crew spent days, weeks at a time, deployed in the wilderness together and the only thing they had for certain was each other, their professional family. We all have two families, our loving families at home and our firefighter family on the job.”

Darrell Willis, the city’s wildland fire chief, was introduced as the father of the Granite Mountain crew, the first such outfit sponsored by a city. Most are run by federal or regional agencies. Willis praised his team as the best of any group of hotshots.

“Every action they took was well-thought-out,” he said. “I would have followed them blindfolded in the very place they were at that day. I had full confidence in their decision-making process. They were diligent students of fire. They wanted to make sure they came home to you.”

Dan Bates, chapter vice president of the United Yavapai Fire Fighters Association, called the hotshots “the saints of Prescott.”

In front of the stage stood a line of firefighting tools, helmets and gear — a set for each of the 19. Large photographs of each of the hotshots sat on easels.

They anchored a service steeped in the pageantry and tradition of firefighters.

As the memorial began, a procession of wildland firefighters filed in and stood at attention in front of the stage. Dignitaries and family members were never without a uniformed escort.

Family members were given several items in honor of the hotshots, including an American flag that had flown over the U.S. Capitol, an Arizona flag that had flown over the state Capitol and a bronzed Pulaski tool, used for more than a century by wildland firefighters to dig firebreaks and build trails.

Later in the service, the firefighting union presented the families with firefighters’ medals of honor, given to firefighters who die in the line of duty.

Near the end, Tim Hill, president of the Professional Fire Fighters of Arizona, fought back tears as he described the ritual of the final alarm, a series of three bells sounded three times that marked the end of a firefighters’ service.

Afterward, buglers played echo taps and four AV-8B Harrier jets from the Marine Corps station in Yuma flew in formation over the arena, in honor of the aviation tradition in fighting wildfires and of the three hotshots who had been Marines. In the ceremonial missing-man formation, one of the four rose from the group as it passed and pulled away into the sky.

Only relatives of the 19, firefighters and a few other invited guests were allowed inside the arena for the service. Thousands more watched in the parking lot outside and at Yavapai College, all seeking to honor the hotshot team one last time.

Three women came to support their husbands, members of the Globe Hotshots. They said they couldn’t imagine what the firefighters’ families are going through.

“They come home, and you smell the smoke on their clothes,” said Brittany Romero, 23, a medical assistant from Globe. “You hear stories about husbands no longer being there, and it’s very close to home.”

Not everyone made it to the arena, indoors or out. Steve Mont, 65, of Peeples Valley, opted to watch the service at his house, instead of driving into Prescott Valley. After being evacuated and then being allowed to return last week, he said he felt like being a homebody for a while.

He said he feels a special connection with the firefighters because they were fighting the fire that came within about a mile of his home. “I feel more tied to this,” he said.

Doug Duncan, 70, had traveled from Tempe to visit his daughter from Prescott. His children had both attended Prescott High School and known many of the 19 firefighters killed, he said.

Duncan knew he wanted to watch the service but wasn’t sure he should join the crowds outside the arena in Prescott Valley.

“I was in the Army for 22 years, and I thought I’d get a little too emotional,” Duncan said. “It was better to watch it by myself.”

With temperatures climbing outside, Duncan staked a stool in the dim, cool cavern of Whiskey Row Pub in downtown Prescott. There, a handful of people watched the service on TV, staying mostly silent except to sip their beers in near darkness.

“It’s a rough one,” said Duncan, his eyes tearing up more than once.

... Dustin DeFord ... William H. Warneke ... Kevin Joseph Woyjeck ...

Prescott Mayor Marlin Kuykendall eulogized the 19 as “the ultimate team of people, a family of brothers when they were away from their own families.”

Prescott is a small town, he said, and he promised the families of the firefighters that it would be their town.

“We will be here to support you, to include you, to cry with you, to laugh with you and to remember with you,” he said. “Prescott will always be a home to you if you want us.”

Biden drew on a series of personal tragedies that he said taught him the importance of firefighters and first responders. He credited firefighters with saving the lives of his two sons in a 1972 accident that killed his daughter and his first wife. He said firefighters saved his life when he had to be rushed to the hospital with a cranial aneurysm. And they saved his home after it was struck by lightning.

“I didn’t have the privilege, nor did Jill have the privilege, of knowing any one of these heroes personally,” Biden said of the firefighters, “but I know them.”

Biden, who was joined in Arizona by his wife, Jill, praised the Granite Mountain Hotshots as “an elite unit in every sense of that phrase.”

He would meet with the families of the 19 personally after the ceremony, but from the stage, he spoke to them directly.

"You knew, since they chose to be firefighters, since they joined the hotshot crew, you knew they were risking laying down their lives every single time they answered a call," he said. "Every time they walked out the door, you knew it may be the last time you’d see that confident smile, feel that, that tender touch, hear that voice saying, ‘I love you. I love you.’

“You lived in fear of that dreaded phone call, fearing the worst, and when it came, the pain and the loss were more profound than you ever imagined.”

But he offered some hope, based on his own life:

“As unbelievable as it is, the day will come when the memory of your husband, your son, your dad, your brother, will bring a smile to your lips before it brings a tear to your eye,” he said. “My prayer for all of you is that day will come sooner than later, but I promise you that as unbelievable as it is, it will come. It will come.”

... John J. Percin ... Grant McKee ... Sean Michael Misner ...

Near the end of the service, Brendan McDonough rose from a chair on the stage.

Several speakers had already mentioned his name, to the applause of the crowd. He had wiped away tears.

As he rose, in a T-shirt bearing the Granite Mountain Hotshot logo with a purple ribbon, he stopped and hugged each of the other firefighters on stage, the mayor, the governor, the vice president.

Then he stepped to the microphone to read the “Hot Shot’s Prayer.”

The people in the arena and outside stood and cheered. For most people, it was the first time they had seen him since June 30.

He was a member of the Granite Mountain Hotshots. Serving as a lookout that day, he had not been caught in the fire with the others.

He choked back tears as he reached the prayer’s final stanza:

For if this day on the line ...

I should answer death’s call ...

Lord, bless my hotshot crew ...

My family one and all.

He looked out at the arena.

“Thank you,” he said. “I miss my brothers, and we’re here today to remember them. I love my family, all of you that are out there. Thank you for supporting me.”

Another thunderous round of applause carried him as he hugged the others again, then left the stage.

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